


Through The Mist, Across The Shallow Ocean

by GoldenPaws



Series: The Chains That Bind Us [3]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Blood and Gore, Chains, Fenrir needs a hug, Fighting, Gen, Graphic Description of Wounds, How Do I Tag, Hurt No Comfort, I'm Bad At Tagging, Imprisonment, Sad, The Author Regrets Everything, Violence, at least not yet, but also hopeful, doesn't get one just yet though, i guess, i have no clue how this happened, not sure if it qualifies as body horror, some gore at least
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-11 23:13:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20554253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenPaws/pseuds/GoldenPaws
Summary: That’s when he freezes. Something is different. Something is...Missing. Fenrir keeps still as his body trembles and his muscles twitch. He feels... Different. Slowly, very slowly he allows some of the muscles to relax as he takes stock of his body. There is... Something is gone. He twitches, and there is no bite of pain.There- There is no chain biting into his flesh.





	Through The Mist, Across The Shallow Ocean

**Author's Note:**

> This was a lot of fun to write again! Though I'm not sure about how it all turned out in the end. I'm tired and a little anxious, so it'll have to do until I can go back and maybe revise it. This is set shortly after "My Exile Is Awaiting", and I already have another idea about a sequel, which would be a multi-chapter fic. I've already sketched out the basic plot, and hope to upload the first chapter in a few days. Enjoy, and let me know what you think!
> 
> Love,  
Goldie

It happens almost silently.

There is barely any sound, but Fenrir’s ears still twitch at... Something. He is not sure what wakes him from his dozing state, drowsily blinking into the mist. The cold has seeped into his bones, but he no longer shivers. It’s almost as if his body has stopped caring about the cold as well. The world swims into focus after he blinks a few times, and even then there is nothing to be seen. No change, still no sounds. He woofs lowly and deeply inhales the cool, salty air. He can smell the sea, and the heather, but there... There seems to be more.

It’s a smell he doesn’t know, one he has never smelled before. Not the familiar, comforting scent of his father, but a completely new one. A mixture of fresh blood, fire and burned wood. Wild and slightly sharp, and it makes his heart clench and beat faster. The wolf stretches his neck and tries to follow it, but the scent escapes him, and then it simply vanishes. Fenrir growls in frustration and huffs angrily. It has been many, many years since anyone but his father has come to visit, since anyone found him, wether by mistake or through purposeful searching. And he needs to know who it was, if he is in any danger, if he needs to defend himself and brace for a fight. The fetter won’t give him much room to move, let alone allow him to gather all of his remaining strength, meager as it may be. Briefly, he wonders if they have finally come to end what they started all those decades, centuries ago. If they have finally decided he is better dead than wasting away, and that thought scares him, leaves him trembling as the chains rattle. He is too weak to fight them off, he won’t last longer than a few hours, and then they will cut off his head and bring it home as yet another trophy. Fenrir is scared, terrified. He doesn’t want to die - Not without a goodbye to his beloved father, who he does not want to leave alone, who he misses and wants to see at least one more time--

He shudders and stares into the mist. No, there are no sounds, and he can’t feel the presence of another creature, but that might be due to his exhausted senses. Still, the mist does not move, and the heather keeps still. As his eyes travel around, he notices that the scent of the flowers is more intense and freshes, and a few of the plants seem to be trampled over. Someone has been here, not too long ago. Why did he not wake? Why did he not hear them approach? And why were they here in the first place? His thoughts are racing through his mind as his body gets flooded with energy, ready to resist and fight whatever may be out there. He lets out a low, threatening growl, baring his teeth. He won’t go down without a fight. Yet there is no one to fight. Just the cold and the mist and the grey sky. Fenrir is confused, and that scares him even more. He is a good fighter, and not afraid to use his strength, but he needs to know his enemy, or all of it will be useless. And if the chains keep him--

That’s when he freezes. Something is different. Something is...Missing. Fenrir keeps still as his body trembles and his muscles twitch. He feels... Different. Slowly, very slowly he allows some of the muscles to relax as he takes stock of his body. There is... Something is gone. He twitches, and there is no bite of pain.

There- There is no chain biting into his flesh.

Fenrir whimpers. A new kind of fear crawls up his spine as he slowly, ever so slowly lifts his right front paw. He flinches as he reaches the last point the fetter would allow, but yet again, there is no pain. His muscles still ache, and some of the wounds are still bleeding, but there are no new cuts. Carefully setting the paw back onto the ground, he lifts the other front paw, and again, there is no pain. There is no rattling sound as he paws at the dirty ground. When he lowers his gaze, he can see it. His legs are no longer bound. The chains, Gleipnir, is lying curled under his body, seemingly harmless. The wolf stumbles back at the sight, only realizing a moment later that the movement should have him screaming in agony. But his hindlegs move without restriction, and he reflexively shakes his fur out. For the first time in centuries, he can do that, and he feels some of the tension leave his cramped muscles. It takes him a while to truly understand.

_He is free._

The thought is terrifying, too beautiful to be true. It’s what he has dreamed about for so long, and now... Now he doesn’t know what to do. He is free. Now what? Again, he lifts his head and watches his surroundings. The mist is undisturbed, and the unfamiliar scent has completely vanished by now. There is no one else. He is all alone. The thought soothes something deep inside his mind.

_He is free._

No longer bound, and-- And the sword-- He allows his jaws to fall closed and whimpers the feeling. The sword is gone, and fresh blood is gushing through his mouth, washing over his tongue until he gags and vomits and spits the horrid mixture onto the dirty earth. His whole body seems to be on fire, muscles spasming as the energy flows through him, urging him to move, to just get away. Distantly, he is aware that he is not thinking clearly, that he should stop and think about what he should do. But the body has a mind of his own, and with Fenrir, it always had a way to over throw any rational thoughts. He is running before he even gets a chance to ponder his decision, sprinting through the heather as the earth trembles under his huge paws. A bloody trail follows him into the mist.

Fenrir runs. He doesn’t know where he is, he doesn’t know where he is going, he only knows that he needs to get away. His heart is throbbing in his chest as it pounds against his ribcage, and every breath rattles wetly in his lungs. The wind brushes through his bloody fur, and carries countless smells with it, but the wolf doesn’t stop to take them all in. He only runs, further and further away from this cursed island. After a while, he leaves the heather behind, and his paws touch sand for the very first time.

The sea. He was right, it was so close the whole time. There are small waves licking at the shore as he trotts towards it, eyes flitting around, ears twitching nervously. Warm sand under his paws, a harsh breeze tickling his nose, he wonders. It was all so close... But how long has it been since he has seen anything but heather and mist? There is still no sun to see, but he knows that if he runs just a little further, he will be able to see it again. Suddenly, the memory of sunlight warming his cold, wet body makes longing bloom in his chest. The ocean stretches out before him, grey, ice cold and endless, but he knows that there is no other way. Not it he wants to leave the island, not if he ever wants to... He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what is waiting out there, or if he will ever reach the mainlang again. There is not much he knows about the worlds, any of them, really. But he thinks about his father, and he finds himself crying for him. More blood runs through his mouth and dribbles into the sand, but he pays it no mind. He starts to run again, out into the ocean. Maybe he will reach another shore. Maybe he will drown. But there is nothing holding him on that cursed island.

The water is shallow, barely reaching above his ankles, and the salt burns in his open wounds. He starts panting after a few hours, but he still keeps on running. He was always a fast runner, but right now he feels as though his muscles are made out of driftwood, cracking and breaking at every movement. For a moment he wonders if maybe he will simply break apart, parts of his battered body disappearing in the dark water. He keeps on running. The ocean stretches out endlessly, and he can feel the hopelessness rise in the back of his throat, but he tries his best to shake it off. Better drown in the shallow sea than wither away on the lonely island. As long as he can run, he will keep on running. As long as he keeps on running, there is the smallest chance of reaching the mainland, of finding his father again. There is hardly anything else on his mind for as long as he runs towards the horizon.

He feels the thirst, and he ignores it. The salty water won’t do him any good, so there is no use thinking about it as his throat grows dry and his tongue swells even more. Sometimes he wonders if he is even going in the right direction. The mist makes it hard to see, and maybe he has been running in circles ever since he left the island. He fears that any moment now, he will set foot onto sand again, and catch the scent of heather in the air. The fear makes him move faster, run harder as the water splashes up into his snout. Tears are streaming down his face as he presses on and stares into the distance, desperately searching for something that will give him orientation, a sense of direction. But there is nothing, and if he can’t--

And all of a sudden, the mist is gone. Fenrir comes to a halt and blinks a couple of times. The world is no longer grey, and it makes his eyes burn. The water... Is a light shade of blue, with white foam dancing on top of the small waves that gather around his ankles. As he lifts his head, he sees the sky again for the first time in an eternity. It’s a beautiful nightsky, covered in hundreds and thousands of stars blinking down at him. He stares at them, and the moons looming above. Some of them he remembers, from stories his father told him, and the sight of those ancient friends makes him whine, long and low in the back of his throat. Maybe he is not completely alone after all. His eyes wander across the horizon, recognizing the stars and constellations one after another, and finally, his eyes settle on one of them. He knows... Or at the very least, hes has vague idea of where he is, and into which direction he needs to head. Still, he allows himself to take another moment and simply stre at all the beauty surrounding him. The feeling of water caressing his leg, the breeze brushing over his dirty pelt, and the intense smell of salt in the air. He shudders and feels himself tensing as he desperately searches for the one scent he longs for, yet there is no trace if it. Just a whiff of the smell of blood and fire... But he can’t focus on that right now. It leads into another direction, anyway, and he won’t stray from his path. He knows where to go, now. He has a destination to reach.

Fenrir is tired. It takes him almost a week to cross the shallow sea, and there are many times when he thinks about simply lying down and falling asleep. He is exhausted, his wounds are oozing blood and puss, and his legs shake- Every part of his body shakes, really. He can hear his breath rattle in his lungs, and the salt of the sea stings in his eyes and nose until they leak. It’s a long week, and by the time he reaches another shore, he is too tired to care anymore.

Panting and gagging he drags himself through the sand. For a moment he fears that he truly has gone in a circle and ended up where he started. But no, this is a different place. There are shipwrecks littering the black beach, broken planks and rusted anchors littering the shore. Fenrir pays it no mind, he is too exhausted and weak to wonder about what happened to those unfortunate enough to be stranded in this realm. His paws drag through the black sand, but he pushes himself further, because he can’t afford to slow down, not now. There is grass at the edge of the beach, wide fields that turn into soft hills, and he tumbles through them. Running is easy. Running for days on end used to be easy as well, and he hopes that it will be again, one day. Now, he runs through the high grass that almost reaches his belly, greedily inhaling the fresh air. The grass is green and the earth smells healthy and feels soft under his paws. The sun is rising again, far away, behind the hills, and it guides him into the right direction. It warms his fur and dries away some of the ocean water and the fresh blood. It feels good, and he almost feels warm again, even if a slight tremor stays, some remains of the cold still stick to his bones. He watches the clouds sail across the sky and thinks that one day, he will be able to race them again, and fly over the ground so fast they can no longer keep up.

The fields stretch on for about ten days. He loses count sometimes, and breaks down in the soft grass to sleep for a day or two. His mouth is dry and his cut open tongue barely fits into his snout anymore. He sleeps for hours on end, and then he struggles back onto his legs. His muscles are cramped and his bones creak, but he doesn’t care. The grass seems to grab his ankles and try to pull him back towards the ground, and he has to fight for every step. He keeps on running, as fast as he can bear. After another two days, creeks and rivers start to plow through the land, and he pauses to drink greedily. The cool water soothes his burning throat, but then it sits heavily in his empty stomach, and he ends up gagging and spitting just a few hours later. He doesn’t try to drink afterwards. The rivers lead him further and further into the land, his paws sink into the wet and muddy earth. He runs for a few days and nights, enjoying to cool, clean air. It’s the first time he sees any other living creature as well. Countless fish swim in the creeks, big and small, their scales sparkling brightly in the rising sun. Fenrir watches them whenever he takes a small rest, and sometime they look back. He tries to smile at them, and doesn’t have the heart to try and catch any of them. Instead, he races them as he runs along the shore, and watches them jump high into the air as they follow him for parts of his way.

He reaches a forest, and the trees swallow him in a matter of seconds. The wolf breathes a sigh of relief once the leaves and branches cover his back, shielding him from the sky. The ground is soft and the air is filled with life. Trees and bushes and wild grass, berries and pinecones and flowers, and the world around him buzzes with energy. Fenrir can hear an abundance of small animals scurry around, mice and rabbits and squirrels and birds in all forms and colors. His ear pick up the sounds of some bigger game as well, and his mouth water. The wolf is hungry, his stomach cramping and almost biting a whole into his flesh, but he knows he is tired and weak and alone, so he hardly stands a chance at catching anything. Trying will only cost him what little strength he has left, so he shakes off the thought. He keeps on moving, making his way through the huge, endless forest, hidden away from any prying eyes. His father used to take him into the woods many times, back when he was just a small pup. Fenrir always loved it, though he loved every place as long as his father was with him. But the woods felt close to something he might call home, and he knew how to move there, in the shadows of the enormous trees, and soon enough he knew how to hunt, as well. His father tried to keep him close, but Fenrir often found a way to vanish, coming back with whatever he managed to catch that day, proudly wagging his tail. His father would always praise him, and then he’d roast the game over a fire and share it with his son. Fenrir always took pride in his abilities, and now he wishes for the strength he used to take for granted. Now, the mere thought of running after some deer leaves him trembling with exhaustion. He turns the other way, even as his stomach growls, and trots off.

Fenrir is loathe to leave the forest behind, so he stays for a little longer than necessary. The days stretch on as he walks under the trees and listens to all the life existing around him. His ears take a while to get used to the sounds again, and a small ringing sound keeps bothering him for most of the time. The animals steer clear of him, his scent enough to scare them away, but he can still hear them scurrying all around him. At night, they watch him rest curled into himself, and he feels a little less alone. They may fear him, but the sight of him doesn’t send them running. It’s a relief. Most people used to run the moment they saw him, screaming and begging for their life, even though he never wished to bring harm to any of them. His father always told him that they were just stupid, fools to never take a moment to try and understand, easily swayed by his grim face and long teeth.

_They are not of importance. They take one look at you and think they understand. Pay them no mind, my beautiful boy. None of them are worth your worry._

Fenrir never truly believed it, even if he was sure that his father was telling the truth, or at least part of it. Maybe he just left something out, in order to spare his confused son, or maybe he didn’t understand it completely himself. Either way, the wolf began to avoid people after some time, as he grew sick of their screams and anger very quickly. He never stopped wondering, though. And some days he would sneak away to watch those people go about their days, without being aware of his presence. Yes, he could’ve attacked them, easily, within a moment’s notice, but he never felt any desire to do so. He only wanted to watch, and wonder about them... And maybe dream, just a little bit.

He stays in the forest and sniffs the air. There are familiar scents, but they bring him no comfort as he searches for his father’s scent. It’s faint, barely there, even for him, and he suspects that he took another path whenever he came to the island. At times he is not even sure if it’s an actual trail he is following, or simply the tug in his chest that pulls him towards the only being he cares about. His father is far away, in Asgard, hidden somewhere inside the golden palace Fenrir remembers so well. Once he makes his way there, he will easily find him, as their magic will pull them together, as it always did. All he has to do is reach Asgard. He purposefully does not think about the guards. About the angry warriors, his powerful uncle, the Allfather and the Queen. He can worry about that once he gets there. It’s no use thinking about them just yet.

Fenrir hardly ever thinks about his family. In fact, he hardly ever calls them that. His family is his father, and some siblings he hardly remembers, because they went away long before he was old enough to know them. There are some images of his laughing uncle chasing him through the fields, and wrestling him into the ground once he grew a little older and wilder. He thinks he loved his uncle, and he likes to believe the blond god did so as well. He wonders what happened to Thor after he was taken away. He never came to visit him, and his father never even mentioned his name, or any of their names, either. But maybe he was not allowed to come, as well. And other than his father, his uncle never was capable in using magic in any way, let alone cloak himself from the seers gaze. Fenrir would like to see him again, too. Maybe he will soon enough, if father can cloak him as well. But they will have to be quiet, so that the Allfather won’t know. Fenrir knows... He knows about Odin, and he wishes he wouldn’t. He wishes... But no. He can’t think about him, now. And he hopes he won’t have to see the old god ever again.

He has to leave the forest a week later.

By now, he is getting worried. Even though he looks at the stars every single night, they no longer seem to make any sense. It’s as if they tease and play with him, jumping from one position to the next as they please, until he can no longer be sure in which direction to turn. He is confused, and he suspects he is no longer thinking clearly. His thoughts are spinning inside of his head, and he shivers in the cool air. The hunger and the thirst are gone, and while he is relieved, he also knows it can’t be a good sign. But there is nothing he can do about now, not when it takes all of his strength to keep himself on his feet. The wounds are bleeding again, gently oozing blood, though it smells wrong and makes him think of rotten carcasses. Puss is coating his pelt and he can no longer fill his lungs with air. Yet he drags himself on. The sun rises again, and he is thankful for its warmth, though he still continues to shake and shiver. When the forest ends, it’s rather abruptly, and Fenrir comes face to face with wall of stone. The mountain stretches towards the sky, rising higher and higher as the wolf cranes his head to catch sight of its peak. It’s useless, as it disappears into the clouds somewhere above. The wolf ponders. Finding a way around might take him infinitely longer, and even if he ever reaches the end of it, he still can’t be sure which way to turn. But if he climbs the mountain... Maybe he will be able to see where is. Maybe he will even be able to see Asgard, and then it will be easy to find the right path. His mind is already made up, long before he hears the pounding of hooves, still far away. His ears twitch at the sound of armor and weapons jingling, and a shudder of a memory runs down his spine. He needs to move, and fast. The rest he will think about later on.

The climb takes forever. At some point, he seems to leave his body behind, as the pain leaves his mind and he no longer feels the bone deep tiredness. He keeps on climbing, thrusting his paws into the ledges until they bleed, until his claws crack and fall off. A cold, biting wind tears at his fur and skin, whirling earth and pebble stones into his eyes. His eyes and snout are watering, but the tears and blood cool him down as they dry and in the sunlight. The tiredness may be gone, but his bones have grown so heavy he can barely move a single muscle. Each movement forces him to take a deep breath, and he needs to rest for longer and longer periods of time. The air keeps getting thinner, and he wishes he could find a place to sleep for a few hours. But there is no room, no ledge big enough to allow him to lay down, and so he keeps going. The sound of hooves pounding the ground has grown softer, slower, but it has also come nearer. He’s not sure what that means, but it scares him, forces him to move just a little faster. They can’t reach him, he knows that much, and the fear pushes his tired body forward. Sometimes he wants to open his maw and cry for help, cry for his father, for help and warmth and a place to rest. He keeps quiet, though, as his ears pick up voices and the sound of heavy feet hitting the ground. They are many, and they are still getting closer. Fenrir knows that they will find him, at some point, and he is too weak to fight them off.

The landscape has changed. There are no more trees, hardly any bushes, nothing but dry grass and dried up roots. Rocks are slipping out from under his paws and he keeps sliding with them, afraid of plummeting into the abyss. There is a constant wind howling in his aching ears as he pulls himself up yet another ledge, staring up towards the sky. Clouds are drifting around him, and it feels like a soothing caress whenever the wet air tickles his snout. He can see the peak, now, and that gives him the strength he needs to jump a little further. The rattling of chains reaches his ears, and his whole body freezes. No. No, no, no, he can’t wait, he can’t allow them to catch him. He knows what they are here for, knows who sent them, and the terror he feels inside his bones makes him desperate and strong, at least for just a few more moments. He is crying, whimpering, but he doesn’t pause, so he pays it no mind. Reaching a small plateau, he takes a second to listen for his pursuers. It’s a moment too long, as they round a corner and stare at him.

He knows their armor, their weapons. They’ve been sent from Asgard, and they freezes once they come face to face with the wolf they are chasing. It’s long enough to give him an advance as he turns around and runs. Their screams follow him as they start to follow, but he is faster, and they don’t share his desperation, his fear and terror. It pounds through his tired body and make him fly through the rocks and bushes, gasping for breath. The landscape blurs before his eyes, and he is no longer sure which way to turn, almost blind with pain and fear. His own heartbeat pounds in his ears, loud enough to almost drown out the warrior’s footsteps and screams. One misstep, and he falls, tumbling down a small slope and crashing against a boulder on its foot. He howls as his ribs crack, and black spots appear in his vision, and he wants to lie down lie down and never get up again. He wants his father to come and save him, but as he cries out for help, he knows the only ones to hear him are the Asgardians sent to kill him, once and for all. So he pushes on, and runs, no longer sure where to go, but he can’t spare a moment to analyze his surroundings. He can hear them barreling down the slope, and a moment later the first arrow whizzes by. Another one, another one, and the fourth one imbeds itself into his shoulder. Fenrir keeps still, but as the next one lodges itself into his hind leg, he stumbles and crashes to the ground. They’re getting closer, he knows, but he is so tired, so tired... Something jumps through his body, and he shoots up as a sword comes down where his head was just seconds ago. An angry Asgardian pants into his face, skin red from exertion, eyes shining with murder. Fenrir backs away and tries to run, but he howls when he feels another blade cut into his hind leg, and a hand grabbing at his scruff. They’re all around him, they’ve surrounded him and there is no way out. He has waited for too long, and now they are going to kill him.

Instinct takes over, and he bares his teeth and snarls. The man in front of him flinches, just for a second, but then he screams and lifts his sword again. Fenrir is too slow to dodge, but he opens his maw and bites down on the cold steel. In breaks easily between his teeth, and he shoves the man away, sending him crashing against a stone wall. When another arrow buries itself in his side, he whips around and roars at the remaining soldiers.They don’t back away, and the wolf realizes he is outmatched, he can only lose. The warriors are not stupid, and they attack him all at once. Fenrir manages to catch one of them, sinking his teeth into his arm, and he cringes at the scream and the cracking of bone, the tearing of flesh. He lifts his head and throws the man as far away as possible, as blood spurts from the wound and covers his fur. The other two are too fast, one of them slices through his pelt as his neck starts to bleed, the other one bring his war-hammer down against his leg. It cracks, and Fenrir screams, sagging. He knows that the bone is broken, knows that he won’t be able to run or even walk anytime soon, and those men know it as well. Still, he manages to catch one of their legs and chomp down on it, and as the war-hammer comes down on his shoulder this time, he bites again, until the legs gets torn off. The blood that floods his mouth makes him gag, and the screams that fill his ears make tears spring from his eyes. He doesn’t want this, none of this. The blood, the pain, the screams and the fear, he wants it all to end. With a strong swipe of his paw, he at least manages to make the other one stumble back, and then he starts to crawl.

His head is pounding, his body a mess of pain, shattered bones and crushed muscles. One of his front leg has stopped working, one of the hind legs twitching uncontrollably, and he feels himself drifting towards the darkness at the edges of his vision. There are more men to come, more warriors ready to beat his head in, and he is at the end of his strength. Yet he keeps on crawling, away from the screaming, crying men he has torn apart and the rest of their company, begging for just one moment, one more moment alive, one more chance of getting out of this tragedy. He doesn’t want to die. He wants to live, he wants to get better- He wants his father. Fenrir cries, desperate and afraid and sad, so sad that it hurts, as he crawls forwards. His eyes grow heavy, and his heart slows down, as an almost comfortable calm washes over him. Is this what death feels like? He wonders as he feels the blood leave his body, along with his strength and awareness. Not much longer now, and then he will be able to rest, for as long as he want. The thought no longer scares him. An escape from the pain, the fear and the insistent longing. He is so tired, he wants to sleep.

Just as he is about to close his eyes, he sees it. Something that does not belong here, and sticks out. It catches his sense and he blinks tiredly. There, in the middle of the wilderness - Is a door. A small one, made up of dark wood, not surrounded by walls or anything else. It sits perfectly still, just a few meters ahead. Fenrir knows it doesn’t belong here, and he frowns at it. Like something from another world, foreign and strange and fascinating. His mind and eyes lock onto it, and he keeps on crawling, towards that curious door. Someone is screaming behind him, and more footsteps echo through the cold air, but he pays them no mind. He no longer cares. But that door... It seems to draw him in, seems to almost whisper into his straining ears, and he hums and follows its call. His strained heart starts beating faster again, and he draws in a deep breath once he reaches it. Magic, pure and strong and intense floods his senses, and he relishes in it, pushing closer. His claws scratch the dark wood, and the door swings open at the barest of touches. Behind it, there is nothing but what he thinks must be the world of the stars, an almost black sky filled with planets and moons and glimmering comets... For a second he wonders if he could fit through it, if he could just fall into space and escape this way. In the next moment, he is pulled through, followed by angry shouts and curses. He no longer listens.

Fenrir is falling.


End file.
